


Outside, Inside

by cleveradjective



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Agoraphobia, Anxiety, Depression, F/F, M/M, Multi, Probably smut eventually idk, Prostitution, encourage me, kk has issues, ♪♪
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2590580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleveradjective/pseuds/cleveradjective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't that bad, you think. You can still function, albeit with Kankri's help getting groceries. You can still work, even if it is a shitty at-home job proofing manuscripts. You're practically normal --<br/>You just. Can't go outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ?

**Author's Note:**

> sobbing i just love karkat okay

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are okay.

You have a job. You pay the bills. You do what you have to do.

  
It isn't that bad, you think. You can still function, albeit with Kankri's help getting groceries. You can still work, even if it is a shitty at-home job proofing manuscripts. You're practically normal--

  
You just. Can't go outside.

  
It isn't like you're allergic to everything, like your internet buddy, Tavros, and you aren't that sensitive to sunlight. You aren't goes to burst into flames when you see the light of day, contrary to popular belief.

  
You just can't do it. Whenever you try to leave the house, you start to think about all the things that could happen- all of the things that have happened, even if just to other people. When you think, you can't do it. When you think of what could happen to you...

  
No. No, you can't, you can't, you...

  
You are currently scrubbing the floors in you kitchen (as if it ever really gets dirty). You wipe your white-blonde hair out of your eyes, grunting as you stand up and look around your kitchen and living room.

  
Spotless.

  
You let out a sigh, running you fingers through your messy hair once more, heading to the bathroom. You have disinfected the whole house by now, and you so need a shower.

  
You turn on the hot water, stripping of your old clothes and putting them into the hamper. Let out a few explatives as you go under the burning water, but you soon relax. This is good.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are okay.  
_____________________________

Your name is Dave Strider, and, despite your near-constant assurance that you are, you are not okay.

You work three minimum wage jobs, not including your atrocious night job. Everything is just dandy during the day, working with old women who take up hours in both the changing and bathroom stalls. Working with unhappy customers.

Going throughout your days, one mundane task after another, pointlessly and miserably spiraling towards the inevitability of death. It's interesting, how you think about that a lot, and how you bring it down to contempt for your night job.

Well, it's not just for at night, because you start at around noon. You only work part-time at your other jobs, which pay shit, and even if this one pays better, you aren't sure that it's worth it. It doesn't mater, you remind yourself. You just need to work hard, so you can die comfortably.

Comfortable. Something that you really aren't right now, especially because there's someone shoving their dick up your ass without any lubrication. Wow, that really hurts. You hiss at the sensation, but you know that he'll just have to pay you extra once it's over. More money, more food, so you're pretty okay with it, even if it hurts like a bitch. You're going to regret this later.

A you're being mercilessly pounded by this god-awful stranger, you ponder just exactly how you got to this. What a shitty career choice, you think, but it's mostly because you couldn't rake in enough cash as a DJ. It's stupid and embarrassing, especially since none of your friends know and are constantly questioning what you do at night, and you hate it.  You hate think job, and you hate your life.

Why did it have to come to this?


	2. Just One Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't know how the phone number got in your apartment. Maybe it was from Gamzee or something, but it's here now. It's staring at you, begging you to call it, and fuck you to Sunday and call you a whore if you aren't going to listen to it.
> 
>  
> 
> _call me xoxo xxx-xxx-xxxx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bam bruh

_call me and ill show you a good time xoxo xxx-xxx-xxx - d.s._

You aren't sure how the number got in your apartment. You aren't sure how anything really gets in your apartment, not when Gamzee loiters here every other day (more like every other week, now that he's got a boyfriend, but whatever). 

You don't know how the phone number got in your apartment, but it's here now. It's staring at you, begging you to call it, and fuck you to Sunday and call you a whore if you aren't going to listen to it.

You aren't really sure why you open your phone and dial in the digits, because you've never been much into prostitutes. Or, that's only what you can guess this number is, because you don't think anyone  _other_ than prostitutes really flirt with Gamzee anymore. 

But for some reason, you're mindlessly worried if the dumb bimbo has enough food to eat or a roof over her head, because fuck you, you can be a nice person even if it's only sometimes. You're more worried about the fact if the chick gets murdered or something and the police find her number in your apartment (why the police would be searching your apartment, who knows) and you'd be sent to jail or something like that. 

So you guess you actually do know why your calling, but you don't really expect it when someone picks up and says a smooth ''Hello?'' in a deep tone.

Okay. A man. You can deal with this.

"Uh," you start, ever-so-eloquent. "I, sorry, I found your number in my apartment, and, I--"

"Were wanting a show? 200 bucks up front and I'll come to your place, big boy," the man says seductively, almost cooing into his phone.

"No, I, uh, was assuming you were probably a friend of a friend of mine,' you splutter, nearly choking. You did  _not_ want to bed this guy. Ever. "Because I definitely have never met you and he probably did, and I was wondering if you had a place to sleep because I'm a fuckin' nice person and I don't want people to sleep on the streets if they don't have to."

Your words are a bit rushed as you try to get something out before he can talk, and for a few seconds there's a pause on the other side of the line. 

"50 bucks with breakfast and a place to sleep as long as you don't kill me in my sleep," he says, tone much flatter now.

You laugh, give him your address, and hang up. 

Your a good person, you hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally updating because fuck yeah

**Author's Note:**

> ive been wanting to do something with this idea for a while but i havent gotten around to it until now.


End file.
